


Come Up With Me

by PaulaMcG



Series: The Lost Years [3]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artist Remus Lupin, Cats, Depression, Food, Gen, Greece, Greek Language, Grief/Mourning, Homelessness, Reading, Sirius Black in Azkaban, Strangers, The lost years, Very subtly implied Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Werewolf Remus Lupin, Winter, subtlety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/pseuds/PaulaMcG
Summary: In December 1986 Remus is not drifting. Someone's leading him through the streets of Thessaloniki.
Series: The Lost Years [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691659
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Come Up With Me

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to Theanó Ananiádi. Remus won't help me make any money.
> 
> This can be read separately from my other fanfic, also from my other Lost-Years fics, although all my fics belong to the same Rowling's-first-five-novels-compliant universe.

Staring at the same pale grey of water and air, I feel relatively anchored again. Particularly when I scribble down these few words in my notebook, which I hold against the torn knee of my trousers, sitting at the edge of the broad pavement with my back turned to the city.

There is not much for me to depict in a pencil sketch when I focus merely on the almost imperceptible line between the sea and the sky. It’s a soothing idea that this has become my home. Maybe home will always be another island, the shape of which I can hardly discern in the horizon. I love to follow that line with my eyes, to learn to draw it – although I have no urge to get there.

Today, however, the mist is lighter than on the first few days after my return to Thessaloniki. Now it’s hard to ignore the colours and sounds of the glaring, discordant Muggle life. I have to bear with it, since I decided against entering the local magical community. There are too many werewolves, and having met some of them at the beginning of the summer, before heading for the islands, I’d better not risk encountering them until after the full moon. I’m afraid they would expect me to join them to spend it in their traditional manner, whatever it is, and I don’t want to know the details.

Having stuffed the notebook and the pencil into the inside pocket of my jeans jacket, I struggle to stand up, and grab my briefcase. Only glancing quickly at the busy traffic, at Aristotélous Square across, and at the maze of buildings climbing the steep hills beyond, I resume my slow stroll towards the famous White Tower with my eyes turned to the right and down at the waves. The water calls for me silently, asks me to welcome the cold which is seeping into my body through the thin clothes.

I’m startled by the sudden appearance of a large, bright orange dustbin in front of me. Almost automatically, still mesmerised by the chilling sea, I check the bin for a newspaper or anything useful, but I’m not remarkably disappointed when finding nothing. Having sat down again, I lean my back against the bin and bury my hands in my pockets. 

I’ve learnt well not to wish for anything I don’t have. Reading something might have done me good right now, however, and my fingers are so cold I’m not eager to write another phrase for myself to read. 

Bookshops wouldn’t be for me just the last resort when seeking shelter, but it must be wise to postpone the pleasures they offer until the late, colder hours. There’s a treasure of fragile beauty in thin books of poetry in flimsy paper covers. These books are so much cheaper than the leather-bound volumes at Flourish and Blott’s that if I were now only as poor as I was in England, I’d be in a much better position than then. I might be able to choose a book to take with me once in a while. But, of course, I don’t mind staying in the warmth of the shops to read. The shopkeepers hardly notice me, because I’m quiet and alone. 

Quiet and alone – in Greese just that is enough to make me an anomaly, fortunately an almost invisible one. That’s one reason I don’t talk to Greeks. They move in packs and chat incessantly in quick loud voices.

This is a perfect country for forgetting myself, although it takes some self-control. I’m determined not to think about myself too much, and not to give anyone else reason to think about me. Reading words the meaning of which I don’t know is a good barrier against meaningful thoughts. The only problem is that I’m learning to read – albeit not to speak – Modern Greek language too quickly. 

The strange look of the letters has turned out to be just a superficial trick. The alphabet, the structures and partly even the vocabulary are not too different from what I grew up with. Besides, here the poetry is simple and pure. I catch glimpses of melancholy portrayals of reality. Nostalgia is almost the official sentiment of this nation. When nostalgic verses touch my mind enough to threaten to dig up something deeper down in me, I escape to the more official alternative in reading material.

Newspapers are easy to find on park benches, and they are more difficult to read. In this country people have not been supposed to understand too well what the government does. Now the vernacular is slowly spreading to schools and administration, too, but the poets were the first revolutionaries to develop the written language on the basis of how the people speak. I still succeed in not understanding too much of what the journalists write. 

When I have not managed to find or pilfer anything to read, I scribble lines myself, repeating the same vague phrases. The barrier gets stronger when I try to write in Greek. In any case it feels good to keep my right hand busy. Pens and pencils are practical to use anywhere. I haven’t owned a quill for a long time and I don’t miss one.

I wish I had watercolours or at least some proper paper, though. To let my left hand channel better what’s beyond words and structure. There must be risks in surrendering the control, but then again playing with colours and shapes has always helped soothe any pain since I was five. Besides, perhaps I could paint something to sell. 

But I’m still tempted to neglect planning how to survive the winter. Late autumn and early winter are hardly my favourite seasons. If I don’t continue reading meaningless words, which detach me from myself, I start seeing this time of the year as an inviting opportunity to disappear completely.

During the summer it was easier to relax and flow with the abundance of prospering life around. Now I must force myself to some routines to take care of this body. To remember to seek the warmest spots to have a rest. No more gazing into that grey water, or it will call me to fall in. Fortunately it smells of rotten fish and toilets. 

I manage to get up and head across the street. I don’t mind the cars, and it’s incredible they don’t hit me. 

I’m not drifting. I’ve planned to come to the Majestic again. It’s become my favourite kafeneíon, one of those few cafés which have both the old interior and the old men with their kombolói beads and their távli games left, although students and artists frequent it too. 

A young couple dressed in leather jackets comes out, heading to a motorbike parked in front of the window. Resisting a weird urge to feast my eyes on them, I hurry to prevent the door from closing and peek in. The dark wood panelling and the heavy brown furniture make the place look so gloomy – especially to eyes filled with the silver lighting above the sea – that it takes me a moment to spot and identify the waiter. As I recognise Kostas’s back, I hurry to just check the ashtrays on the nearby unoccupied tables. Kostas won’t let me stay without ordering something, and I’m not yet in desperate need to huddle by the heating stove.

I can sit in front of the kafeneíon without disturbing anyone. There are four tables along the façade, although few customers choose to stay outside in December. The wind, which is now scattering the mist, is not too strong. And the pale sun is finally acquiring some resemblance of the one that scorched me on my first pilgrimage across the Aegean and caressed me until last month in Crete. I have started doubting it was a good idea to come to the mainland for the winter, but now I don’t care about anything beyond this moment. 

Not even about the waxing moon. No, I don’t fear it. As I sit down and tilt my head back to rest it against the wall, I can see the half moon high on the bright blue winter afternoon sky, and I greet it as a friend. The last and faithful one, who will continue to cause me pain and never betray me.

Now that’s a slightly disturbing thought. Not to be scribbled down in the notebook. 

I take the notebook and the pencil out anyway and place them on the table, before dropping into the pocket two of the three cigarette stubs I just found. Whenever there’s anyone near, I practise some spoken language by asking for light to a stub I’ve picked from an ashtray. Often enough I’m offered a whole cigarette.

Now, however, I’m quite alone. Using my wand would be foolhardy, but I’ve learnt to do some things without it.

Conjuring a cold flame on my palm is easy. I’ve practised it so many times when I’ve wanted to read all through sleepless nights, on deserted beaches or in pitch-dark olive groves, weaving words together with the rhythms of waves or incessant crickets into blankets to cover my mind if not my body. The visible light also dims my mind, numbs some threatening emotions.

Just as, whether wand magic or wandless, warming charms draw their power from my body heat. But it’s still an interesting challenge to sacrifice a bit of warmth and to condense such heat above my thumbnail that the stub lights when touching it. It’s always my left thumb, and it seems to work best if I haven’t quite admitted how cold I am. All right, I shouldn’t think about it too much now.

Having placed the stub between my lips, I fold the thumb against my palm and bent the fingers over it, and I stick the other end of the stub into this small space. I have to focus on the need to smoke only for a moment. Now I can feel warmth on my fingertips, and as I suck, I taste the bitter tobacco. 

I’ve never been a smoker, and this is a lousy substitute for eating. Not efficient in warming up my hands either. But particularly in fresh air it almost makes me feel better.

The air outside the Majestic is not exactly fresh. Across the fumes of the traffic, gusts of wind bring the smell of the sea, and it’s far from the fragrance of the islands. I turn my face straight towards the sun and close my eyes. This is almost a half cigarette. I fill my head with the smoke and with a plain image of the sea – empty and free.

“Hey, you!”

I’m dragged back to reality too abruptly, coughing with tears in my eyes. There’s a dark head bent over me. Why does a waiter bother to come outside? 

Before I manage to say anything or to stand up, the man sits down on the chair next to mine. “How are you doing?”

I glance at him and look back at the stub I’m now holding in the shelter of my right palm. My head’s still swirling, but I’ve registered an image of keen brown eyes under a mop of curly black hair. “I thought… you were the waiter.” My voice is hardly more than a whisper.

Now, for some reason, I don’t think he’s Greek – although anybody, easily concluding from my light brown hair and pale skin that I am not, would speak English to me. I drop the stub and shift slightly, so that his shoulder isn’t almost rubbing against mine and I can look at him better instead.

He has brown shoes, blue jeans and a grey jacket, and a big red and white scarf wrapped around his neck. I doubt he’s taller than me, and he looks rather scrawny, too. His teeth shine bright against the warm hue of his small face when he replies, smiling continuously. “Did you order… or do you want to order something?”

“No. That’s why I’m sitting here.”

I grab the notebook and the pencil from the table and return them into my pocket. I fold my arms against the wind, and focus on the sunshine. The mist has disappeared, and the roar of the traffic appears to have grown so as to severe my connection to the sea. Now the water is moving in shiny dark blue tones as the background of my landscape.

This bloke leans closer to me and keeps smiling. “You know, I saw you here at the Majestic yesterday. Inside, I mean. But you were gone before I got to talk to you.”

I think I can remember him, too. I register all the faces and hardly manage to erase any. But I don’t bother to tell him that. Or to say why I left and where I went after the bookshops were closed. As if there were much of anything to say – much of anywhere to go.

If he wants to talk to me, it’s up to him to say something.

“I want to get you a coffee.” 

Now that is tempting, I have to admit. Still, I don’t reply. I only look at his face.

He smiles and nods, and his eyes, sincere and cheerful, meet mine. “Let’s go in. It’s a bit chilly.”

I can sense that he’s watching me intently, as he waits by the door while I’m slowly stretching my stiff body and retrieving the briefcase from under the table. Is he concerned or just curious? Either could irritate me, but I push the feeling aside and concentrate on the thought of the heating stove and the hot drink. He holds the door open for me, so I march straight in and to the far corner, to what I can already call my regular table, next to the stove. I have to trust he will follow and won’t be sidetracked to the company of those loud boys with whom he played tavli last night. 

There he is. His smile flashes to brighten the gloom of the kafeneíon at the same time when I ease myself to be enveloped in the smoky warmth. He gesticulates to Kostas and fumbles in his pockets. “Or would you rather have a beer?”

Since Kostas has already arrived and is eyeing me suspiciously, I lift my eyebrows in a quick jerky movement as an exercise of the local non-verbal expression of negation. “’Óhi. Éna nes glykó me gála.”

I want a proper coffee, as proper as is possible in this country, and with milk and as much sugar as possible, too. I’m not much more of a coffee drinker than a smoker, and I especially dislike too sweet coffee, but I know I need all the energy I can get in this free drink.

My eyes are now used to the dimmer lighting, and I scan the room. Mainly motivated by my urge to read something. There are no newspapers lying around. The figures are familiar from last night or the night before. A new arrangement of the same characters, ever new in their nuances. The girls in black, each leaning on a boyfriend who blows smoke rings. A calloused hand playing nimbly with the orange beads, the other hand throwing the dice, the moustache moving incessantly. No sound. Just the blinding light through the façade.

The smiling boy must have spoken. Yes, he’s a boy, probably at least five years younger than me. And why should I care about that? I can’t make myself interested in what he’s saying. His English sounds a bit strange, too – different from how the Greeks speak this language. Should I ask where he’s from? That’s what people usually talk about. 

All right, here’s the coffee. Now I know what to say: thanks – very much. I was raised to be polite, after all. “Efharistó pára polí.” 

It is hot and sweet. I finish it too quickly, and lean back, tempted to close my eyes. There’s a weird twist in my stomach. There is always, but I register only the change – until I focus on something outside by body. Now this boy is the most obvious choice.

His smile has faded a bit. I’ve probably ignored too many of his attempts at a conversation.

“Sorry,” I murmur. 

He should be bored with me by now, but he seems to be stubborn. “Don’t you want to come up with me?”

“Up?”

“To Áno Póli.” His voice reveals exaggerated patience, so he must have said this before. “To the old town, up. It’s a bit far to walk, up Ágias Sofías until the end, you know.”

Walking until the end could be a bit tiring… but fun, in a way. “And what’s there, at the end of the road?” I’ve said the words aloud without fully intending.

He sighs, but he doesn’t say that again I make him repeat something. “Not much, actually. I can cook rice, or… I’m sure I can find something in the cupboard.”

All right, he’s talking about food. I can’t totally ignore my stomach, which tells me not to spoil this opportunity. “Sounds great.” I think I’m smiling, or is the new luminosity in his smile a reaction to my words alone?

It is a long way. In the heat of June I once sought shade by the church of Holy Sofia and naturally did not even consider continuing uphill. The street gets steeper and narrower. The boy is cheerful again. He assures me that Áno Póli is well worth the climb: the best part of Thessaloniki. I follow as his path winds through the clutter of cars parked all across the driveway and the pavement. At times he stops to wait for me, and he keeps humming a wild and melancholy melody. 

When I once again move the briefcase to the other hand, letting my hands take turns in warming up in my pockets, he almost forces me to surrender it to him. It’s not heavy, as I haven’t got much more than a couple of old books, and the chains, of course, which I may well need at the coming full moon again, in case there’s no alternative to finding a deserted place… I have nothing that would be valuable for him. And why should I ever again think whether I can trust people or not? I must read the signboards of the shops now. Pantopoleíon… Grafeíon kideíon… 

By the time there are no more shops and the street has switched into wide steps, winding along the slope, I am breathless. The boy takes my arm, urging me to a terrace in the turn of the street, and points over the balustrade. 

Now this scene should be breathtaking, if I had anything left for it to take. The city is spread at my feet, and the sea is waving to me benevolently from beyond. This time all the visible space between, revealed in bright colours thanks to the perfect illumination, reassures me that the far shore and I are connected and there is a home for me. There’s a faint white line… 

“Look! Today you can see all the way to Mount Ólympos.” But the boy spins me around and points at a white wall on our right a few steps up. “This is where I live.”

There is only a door in the wall, no windows facing the street. The boy fumbles about in his pockets for his key. Now he stares at a coin on his palm, and his ever-smiling face becomes so beaming that it seems to still double the almost blinding reflection on all the white around us. I realise that here light penetrates the clear air easily. This understanding only reinforces the idea that I have entered another reality. If I’m not up in heaven, I’m close.

I don’t mind… getting perhaps closer when he says: “You want to come with me or wait here? It’s only a couple steps more, and you’ll see the main street of our quarter.”

I must have missed some explanation again, but I follow him.

This alley is horizontal. Is that what makes it completely peaceful under my tired feet? There’s probably no entrance for cars, and the air is devoid of all vibration, except a faint smoke on our left, and we turn to that direction. In front of the white walls, iron gates and little gardens,  
the few trees look stunted but reconciled with the brown, dried leaves they’re still holding onto. 

Before the boy opens the door of a small turquoise house, I recognize the scent mixed with the smoke of burning wood. Once again I’m let in first – and almost pushed further towards the baking ovens. I stand there breathing in the heavenly odour, until a hot loaf is shoved into my hands. I can hardly bear to hold it, as it’s carelessly half-wrapped in thin paper.

Back in the crisp air, I try to distract my attention to a couple of skinny cats, who sunbathe in proud resignation on top of the waste containers. Only when I feel the boy seize the end of it, do I look down at the loaf again. He breaks a piece off for himself. And now as he continues along the alley towards where we came from, mumbling over his shoulder, “Help yourself,” I stop and breathe hard.

The golden yellow crust is coarse at places, smooth at others, and there are some seeds on it – sesame. I doubt my filthy fingers are worthy of touching it, but they can’t resist it. The inside is white and soft, and steaming. Now I’m in such a hurry to chew and swallow that I hardly register the taste, and it’s hard to start walking. When I notice that the boy is standing quite a bit further on the alley, in front of a green gate, I try my best to catch up. 

But he hasn’t stopped in order to wait for me. His words ring in the unearthly silence surrounding us, “… na pliróso se líges méres…”

When I reach him, my mouth is not empty yet and I must be wearing a blissful smile. The woman behind the gate nods to me and launches into such babbling that I can’t follow at all. She’s squat and plump and not exactly young, but not dressed in the typical black. Her red cardigan and colourful flowery dress are just appropriate to celebrate the lighting of this time and place. Even her hair is golden brown, perhaps dyed. Still, the most warmth is in her gentle gaze, so that a strange wave of sadness touches me when she abruptly turns and waddles across the yard and into her house.

The boy, however, doesn’t resume walking towards his home. For once, he looks away from me while talking. “You didn’t hear what I told her, did you? I said I’d pay the rent in a few days.” 

Since he’s evidently not going to move, I look up towards the house, and, indeed, the flowery lady is already returning. She opens the gate and hands a large, covered plate to the boy. He gives the briefcase back to me. “Efharistó”, he murmurs, and I repeat it.

The door in the white windowless wall opens to another surprise. We enter a narrow stretch of paved yard, covered by lattice work with an almost bare grapevine. On our left there’s first a door and then, between two windows, a staircase leading to the roof. But on our right there is only a low wall, lined with a ledge, which is filled with flowerpots. And looking over the wall, beyond the red tiled roofs just below us in the slope, I can once again see the whole city and the sea under the tender winter sun. 

“I have the same view through each window, too. Quite a luxury, isn’t it?” The boy has turned to look at me, probably to check how I like his house. 

It’s easy to admire the yard itself, too. “This is a great place,” I say in genuine awe. “You even have a lemon tree.”

There are greenish yellow fruit in the small tree which grows in a barrel placed on the ledge. At the end of the yard there’s another door. Above it, on a small painted metal canopy, a cat is stretching herself. She’s plain grey, not striped, her fur like smoky velvet. 

“And a cat,” I say. 

“That’s my Pussy,” he says, laughing, as he opens the door under the canopy. “She’s a beauty, and a great mother. I have five of her children, too. But better not talk about the kittens to Theanó – the landlady. Although she knows by now… Mind your head.”

The ceiling of the first room is so low that I can hardly stand straight. On my left a step down leads to what seems to be part of the kitchen, with a sink and a heating stove. But up here there is, besides a gas bottle and a cooker, a small table under the window. He leaves the plate there and I place the bread beside it, dropping the briefcase next to the table. I follow him, and now on my left there is a door to a room with a grey-green shabby couch.

“You can wash your hands here, and there’s a small toilet over there: the door in the corner. The bathroom is outside, just on the right where we came in – did you notice? Not very comfortable in the winter…” He continues talking even while I’m using the toilet. “I have two rooms. There’s a mattress in the other one, and you can close the door between, too.”

He has now returned to the upper part of the kitchen. There’s a window without a glass pane between these two rooms, and when washing my hands, I can see him standing against the light which streams in through the actual window. He has brought two plates and two forks.

“You can sit here. I think you like the view.”

I do. Landscapes are my speciality, and there’s more than a beautiful image in this one. But now I focus on the still life in front of me, grateful for the lighting he has arranged for it by placing it here in the patch of sunlight on the bare wooden tabletop.

Yes, I’m grateful for this and for all that I have. I’m so blessed. I’d wolf down all the food and embarrass myself, if I didn’t have the ability to see it like this.

The bread is cut in thick slices still attached to each other. The boy breaks one off for himself, and I reach out my hand to do the same. My stomach thrills with joy at the slight violence I still have to do to the slice before bringing it to my mouth. While savouring the crispy and the soft warmth of it, I keep staring at the uncovered plate.

“It’s only a salad,” I hear the boy say, and I wonder what he can possibly mean with “only”. 

The glistening oil makes the big pieces of tomato shine bright red among the varying shades of green and the white chunks of cheese. The olives are like black stars.

I’m startled when he begins to slowly move some salad onto my plate. I must have smiled again, however, because his movements become less hesitant and he ends up giving me clearly more than a half of it.

The scents of parsley, oregano and basil now overrule the visual image. I partly close my eyes, too, since now it’s time to abandon both words and sights. To surrender to the purest sensual pleasure. 

A sound of knocking breaks the silence abruptly and is followed immediately by a creak. I blink at the sight of the warm-coloured lady, as a new enticing odour, ever more satisfying, envelops me. But she has hardly had time to hand another plate to the boy when shrill mewing makes her jerk back.

“Ta gatákia!” she spits out, and now she freezes, with her hand on the door handle, and stares at the boy, then at me for a while, before continuing sternly, “S’oúpa óti fthánei ná’heis mía gáta!” But I think she still gives us a smile before exiting.

When she’s already gone, I say, following the boy’s example, “Efharistó.” I breathe it out softly, in return, having inhaled the scent of her gift. 

The mewing intensifies. The boy takes the plate of casserole and holds it down close to the floor. I must really have been mesmerised by the food. Only now do I turn my eyes to the kittens. The bigger black one recoils immediately, but the four, each of which is coloured black and white or grey and white, jostle one another, pushing closer to the food.

“You don’t like it, I know. It’s moussaká – too spicy for you,” the boy says with laughter in his voice, and he waits patiently, allowing the kittens to poke the food with their rosy noses. “Don’t worry,“ he continues without looking up at me, and I wonder whom he is talking to.”Theanó didn’t want cats. She finally said that one was okay, but that would be enough. No more cats. But, really, she has no heart to throw the children out.”

The kittens now lose their interest, and he serves the casserole to me. It’s soft and oily, with thick layers of minced meat and aubergine. 

We eat in silence. I manage to empty my plate before noticing the protests in my stomach. 

Now I need to go to relieve myself again. Fighting against drowsiness, I struggle to my feet. “Excuse me…” 

In hope of more privacy I head for the yard. I can see the door of the bathroom in the other end of it, beside the door leading to the alley. 

When I come out again, I almost collapse on an orange plastic chair just outside one of the windows. After I have stared at the light above the sea for a moment, the boy’s luminous smile flashes across my mind. I catch myself wishing I had talked to him. He must wonder if I even appreciate what he… Do I really care about his feelings? I simply wish he liked me. And how could he possibly like me when I haven’t even said anything to him? So why did he take me with him? Why should I know? Because I wish I could sleep here – at least tonight.

Something pokes me on the shoulder. Startled, I turn to see that the boy has opened the window and is handing out to me a cassetteplayer. After a while he comes to the yard, carrying a box full of tapes, and a blanket. 

“Or would you rather go in… lie down perhaps? It’s warmer here in the sun, I think. I turn the sómba on to heat the rooms only in the evening.”

I shake my head slightly, then try to jerk my eyebrows up, too. “No… Thanks,” I mutter, although I’m not sure it’s true.

I wrap the blanket around myself while he pulls another plastic chair close to mine and starts sorting out the tapes. He’s humming a strange wild melody again. I’ve just decided that I must say something when he starts talking, still looking down at the tapes.

“You know, I usually eat at the university. You can eat there for free. You didn’t know about that? You don’t even need to be a student – they don’t check. You know, I only went to the language school last year and didn’t… and I must do some work instead. So now my residence has expired, and I shouldn’t talk about that to just anybody but… I must take you there. We can also bring food with us from there, for the cats, too. But now they’ll soon close for the holidays.”

He’s finally chosen a tape, and he places it in the cassetteplayer. With his finger on the button he turns to look at my face, seeking eye-contact. “You know why I think Theanó complained about them again? The kittens, I mean. To show that you, too, can stay even if… she doesn’t want to say it’s okay.”

I’m still unable to do anything but stare at him.

When the intricate rhythms of the song fill the yard he leaps up. “I left the water boiling,” he exclaims, and after a moment he shouts from the kitchen, “You want your tea sweet, right?”

“Óhi. Métrio!” I reply, startled by the strength of my voice. I can’t remember last time when I’ve spoken so loud.

He returns and hands me a big steaming mug. It smells of mint.

“Thanks.”

“It’s medium sweet, is that how you like it? I’m sorry I have no milk. You British people like your tea with milk, don’t you? You are British, right?”

I only nod, and after a moment it occurs to me to say, “It’s fine without milk. I meant: yes, I’m… from London.”

Perhaps I should not have… indulged in a conversation like this. Or could I ask what his name is, since he must have told me when I wasn’t listening? Could I tell him who I am? I catch myself wishing I could tell him… what I am.

I look up at the sky, and unerringly my eyes find the half moon, which I have tried to ignore since I met this boy. Despite the warm mug in my hands I shiver, and I venture to say, “Do you think I could stay for…”

“For the winter?”

“No. For… a week.”

After a week, will my naked body be tied to a tree with the chains? At the freezing dawn sprawled across a clawed piece of land, on soil soaked with blood? 

There’s no way I could tell him, or avoid telling him, if I stayed longer, but perhaps until then... As if he knew in any case, for a moment he looks more serious than at his landlady’s gate, but now he doesn’t turn away. He places his mug on the windowsill and, staring into my eyes, he starts singing along with the recording. 

The melody already sounds familiar, but the words are of a language I’ve never heard before. While singing with growing passion, he wraps the red and white scarf tighter around his neck. Now with my eyes closed I’m enveloped in those words I can’t understand, and all I can wish is to stay just for a while. To sleep for a while with someone who’s watching over me.

But the song ends. He starts tapping the rhythm of the next one on his knee, but he doesn’t allow the music to enthral him totally. He speaks softly, “You won’t have anywhere to go after a week either, do you?”

Please, don’t wake me up. 

He doesn’t. He sings one verse, and when I hear him speak again, I can feel the warmth of his smile on the verge of a dream. “That is enough of a reason. For anyone to be welcome to stay, I mean. That there’s nowhere else to go.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in February and March 2005 and revised fifteen years later.


End file.
